Rebuttal
by Kristina Marie
Summary: What happens when characters react?


I make no claim to any WEP characters herein.

Thanks Wade Wells for the quick beta.

I accept any and all comments you may wish to make.

Written because people are silly. (Yes, I actually used a passive construction, here. Shocker!)

The grey haired man at the head of the table rang the chime sitting in front of him. "Ladies and gentlemen, please! Come to order. We cannot begin discussions until calm returns to the room."

The room quieted briefly before erupting again in a fury of complaints, name-calling and biting comments. The man placed his hand on his forehead over his eyebrows and rubbed the ache beginning to form.

In the din, no one noticed a large female form entering the room and a series of carts, directed by kitchen staff, behind her. Stopping to look at the room's occupants, she paused only a moment before nodding to herself and placing her hands on her hips. The staff, having often experienced the woman's wrath, cringed inwardly.

"THAT WILL BE QUITE ENOUGH!" Her bellow rang out into the room which descended into silence. "I will NOT allow the lot of you to act like hooligans and in such a childish manner. You will treat each other with politeness, courtesy, and as adults, have I made myself clear?"

The grey haired man looked at the woman in awe. How she could command a roomful of leaders and commanders and make them look shamefaced remained one of the mysteries of the universe. She expected people to obey and not one person ever questioned her. He looked around the room and saw a group of abashed adults, nodding in agreement to her demands and softly worded apologies.

The woman simply nodded and then gestured to the people behind her who immediately began serving dishes to each member of the table. No two plates contained the same meal, and the representatives from the many planets saw the coverings removed with soft exclamations of surprise as favorite home world dishes appeared before them. How she knew what to prepare for each person remained a mystery, but it certainly set an atmosphere more conducive to addressing the problems at hand.

Sighing, the man at the head of the table pushed aside the thoughts and instead concentrated on light dinner conversation and enjoying his herb-crusted fish with baby carrots and cous cous.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

With dinner dishes cleared away, desert served and people in a more relaxed frame of mind, the grey-haired man struck the chime in front of him. Small talk quickly quieted and attention turned to the man unanimously elected as the chair for the meeting. "Now then, shall we turn our attention to the complaints lodged herein?"

Halfway down the table, a blue-skinned, white haired, handsome man spoke, "Complaints? Such a mild, diplomatic term, my dear Councilor. Come, call things for what they are, humans which. . ."

"Please! Insults will not solve any of the problems, Lotor," interrupted the diplomat.

"That's Prince Lotor!"

"_Prince_ Lotor, then."

Another voice overrode the Councilor's, "Not my prince!"

"Nor mine!"

"Not to me!"

A chorus of voices soon started arguing the merits of the Doom Prince's title. The grey haired man at the front of the table wearily dropped his head into his hands and massaged his temples. The reptilian looking humanoid wearing ostentatious robes leaned closer to him. "Hmm, seems the children cannot stop arguing amongst themselves long enough to look at the outside threat, my old adversary. No wonder this conflict between planets remains unfinished."

"King Zarkon, your determination to rule the known universe adds to that conflict!"

"Hmmm, you may be correct in that assessment, Coran, but at least I can lean back and enjoy myself and laugh at the silliness of youth who argue over issues which have no importance in the long run."

Coran chuckled, allowing himself to see the humor of the situation. Dropping his hands, he looked at the king lounging in a chair next to him, swirling a glass of wine in his left hand, gazing back at the rest of the table an amused expression on his face. Without pausing to think, Coran pushed his chair back and stood, not noticed by the young people currently yelling back and forth at each other. "Your Majesty? Would you care to join me in a slightly quieter room for a drink or three? I cannot see this farce ending any time soon, and frankly, my patience for these youths has reached its end tonight."

Zarkon looked at the table and then with a sudden move, finished the wine in his glass before standing to join the diplomat. "My old adversary, I would much enjoy that. Please lead the way." The two, king and counselor, exited the room and proceeded to a small ante-room nearby. Coran rang for a servitor to come and bring them light refreshments and a bottle of his favorite Arusian brandy to share with the King of Doom. Neither man felt the need to fill the silence with small talk. Within ten minutes, each sat with a snifter of brandy, with the servitor leaving behind the crystal decanter for refills.

"What exactly started this mess, Coran?"

"I am not exactly sure, your Majesty." He paused a moment to gather his thoughts. "It seems the schism in the fan fiction world between the Lotor/Allura camps and the Keith/Allura camps has boiled over into all-out hostilities. Name calling, flames, bashing of all kinds has started occurring, with no one able to point to a reason."

"Excuse me, what?"

"How much do you follow what fandom writes about us?"

"Why should I bother reading such drivel?"

"Some people would feel flattered about the picture painted about them."

Zarkon waved his hand dismissively. "Few, if any, give me my full due. It seems any scenes written about me read the same after a while. I am evil, manipulative, cannot stand my son, and so on and so forth. I mean, what about my orphanage for the children of fallen officers? Can anyone mention that? Noooo, of course not. It does not fit my image. Or how about the fact I love Doom Flowers that bloom only after receiving a dose of fresh blood and the sweet fragrance they exude. I am quite the gardener, but does _that_ receive any print? Again, the answer? No!"

Coran stumbled to find the correct answer to the implied question, without laughing aloud. "You have a point, your Majesty. I can see why you choose to distance yourself." He sighed, "At any rate, people seem to have forgotten some of the ideas behind fan fiction."

"Explain."

"Well, it should act as a place where someone can express their creativity and explore character development or plot development in a no-holds barred environment. Since no one owns us, the characters, no one should have the ability to dictate or criticize someone for what they write."

"Wait, back up here a minute. You said some people wish for Allura to marry my son and some that annoying, idiotic captain. Correct?" Coran nodded and Zarkon continued his thoughts, "And no one forces one side or the other to read the fictions of the other side?" Again, Coran, nodded. "Do people post synopsis of their stories?"

"Usually."

"So, someone who wants to see Allura marry that boy-faced, Neanderthal Captain of yours choose to read a story someone writes about Allura marrying my lame-ass son and then becomes mad about it?

"That about sums up the situation, sire,"

Zarkon burst out laughing until blood-red tears watered his eyes. "Call for another bottle, Coran. How your species has ever risen to a dominant position, I will never understand!"

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Several hours later, a slightly tipsy counselor, and a jovial king returned to the dining room to see how the discussion fared over the fan fiction world division. As the door opened, both men stopped at the scene before them. Keith held one arm of the princess while Lotor held the other, in a tug-of war over her. Allura looked confused and distressed over which man she should try and help.

"Flavor text? What do you mean flavor text? We are integral to the plot of the story. How many times has Sven flown to the rescue of the team when a pilot cannot fly a lion? Tell me that, witch!"

"You have how many lines, exactly, little girl? In the original series I killed that flyboy of yours!"

Romelle, Princess of Pollux, gasped. "I reject that reality as my love stands right next to me!"

Sven, however, had involved himself in a dispute with Merla over her value to the series and to fan fiction in general.

Pidge stood on a table to exchange words with Cossak.

Coran looked agape at the scene before him, while Zarkon just laughed. No one notice the two of them standing in the doorway watching the chaos.

The room quieted momentarily as a loud roar rang over everything. "I HAVE HAD IT!" Normally quiet, Hunk stomped over to Allura, who still stood as the rope in the tug-of-war between Keith and Lotor. "I am claiming Allura for me, and the rest of you can go jump in the moat! Neither one of you knows what she wants, so I am making an executive decision." He grabbed the princess around her waist, yanked her from the two stunned men, and then soundly kissed her.

The door quietly closed as a new, louder, ruckus started in the room.

"Another bottle, your majesty?"

"Make it two, counselor."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .. . . . . . . . . . . . . .


End file.
